Mistletoe & Mayhem: Mistletoe & Mayhem / Santa's Sexy Secret

“On second thought, make that a double-strength cappuccino,” Jodie said.

Sophie waited until the waitress had walked out of earshot before she reached over to pat Jodie’s hand. “Atta girl. You did remember today’s motto.”

“Go for It,” Jodie recited. “And I’m throwing over my herbal tea habit. Whoop-de-do,” she muttered sarcastically.

“You tried to buy a hand gun, too. And Hank Jefferson had no right not to sell it to you. Did you tell him about the prowler?” Sophie asked.

“He told me to go tell the sheriff, and he patted me on the arm.” Jodie frowned. People were always patting her—on the head, on the arm, on her back. Somehow she brought that out in people. She hadn’t liked it at eleven and she didn’t like it any better at twenty-six. “I don’t think he believed me. He almost refused to sell me the rope.” She gestured toward the package she’d carried into the café. “I’m sure he’s worried that I might use it to hang myself.”

Both women reached for her hands.

“You wouldn’t,” Irene said.

“You couldn’t,” Sophie said.

As Jodie looked into the eyes of the two older women, she smiled for the first time since she’d left Hank Jefferson’s sporting goods store. “Of course not,” she said.

She’d known the Rutherford sisters ever since she was a little girl. Born into a once affluent family of New York city bankers, they’d never married. And when the family had fallen on hard times, they’d moved into one of the Rutherford family’s summer homes on Castleton Lake. Both women served on the board of trustees at the college, and they’d convinced the dean of the college to hire her as assistant librarian once she’d graduated.

Irene cleared her throat. “What are you going to do with the rope? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all,” Jodie said. “It’s Plan B. Sort of. Remember last Monday’s motto—There’s More Than One Way to Skin a Cat?”

Sophie shot a triumphant glance at her sister before she turned to Jodie. “Those mottoes are starting to work. They’re becoming part of you.”

“I guess,” Jodie said. The truth was that while she’d been working all morning at the library and trying to visualize the gun in her mind, she’d begun to have second thoughts about whether or not she’d have the nerve to actually use it. Pulling a paper out of her pocket, she spread it out on the table. “While I was helping one of the students do some research work on the Internet this morning, I came across this.”

Irene frowned thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“A snare trap,” Jodie replied. At the bemused expressions on the sisters’ faces, she continued. “It’s some kind of guerilla warfare thingamajig that they use in the jungles. Clyde Heffner, the student who downloaded it for me, is coming over this evening to help me rig this up in the attic. The next time that prowler starts poking around up there, he’ll find himself hanging by his feet from the ceiling.”

Leaning closer, the two sisters studied the diagram.

Sophie turned it upside down. “It looks very complicated.”

“Do you think it will work?” Irene asked.

“They work out in the woods. Clyde uses them to trap game.”

“I hope no one ends up hanging from their necks,” Irene fretted.

“I say we go for it!” Sophie said. “I, for one, do not want to end up murdered in my bed.”

“Well, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that anymore,” Irene replied as she began to refill her teacup. “And Jodie won’t have to build that thingamajig, either, now that Mr.—Ouch!” Wincing, she broke off and shot her sister an apologetic look.

Jodie glanced from Irene to Sophie. “Why won’t we need it?”

They stared back at her uncomfortably for a moment.

“We…that is…how about some lemon?” Irene asked, offering a plate.

“I’m not having tea,” Jodie said. “Why don’t we need my snare trap?”

“We were going to tell you this evening as a sort of surprise.” Pausing, Sophie cleared her throat. “Irene and I have also come up with a Plan B.”

“It’s not nearly as complicated,” Irene said.

Jodie pocketed the diagram and leaned back in her chair. “You had your committee meeting for the Mistletoe Ball today. And then you were supposed to be at the newspaper office placing an ad for a handyman. What else did you do?”

Irene beamed a smile at her. “We’ve taken in a boarder.”

“But you’ve already got one—me,” Jodie said.

“You’re not a boarder. You’re like family,” Irene said. “And this is different. Mr. Sullivan’s a carpenter and an electrician. When we got to the newspaper office, he was in line ahead of us, placing an ad to get work as a handyman. We got to talking, and we ended up hiring him. The best part is he needs a place to stay, and he agreed to accept room and board as part of his wages.”

“It was fate,” Sophie said. “We decided to go for it.”

“You’re inviting a perfect stranger to live under the same roof with you? Don’t you realize how dangerous that is?” Jodie asked.

“He won’t be living under the same roof,” Sophie explained. “We offered him the apartment over the garage.”

Irene coughed delicately, then leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “We explained to him that there was only one bathroom, in the house, and that until we add on another…well, there might be certain…lack of privacy issues. He said the garage would be fine with him.”

“But he’ll still be living on the property with you—with us—and we don’t know anything about this man. He could be a serial killer!” Jodie said.

“I have references.”

The voice. Jodie was sure she recognized it. What were the chances of two different strangers in town speaking in the same low, gravelly tone? Absolutely none, she decided as she turned and found herself looking into the laughing eyes of the man from Hank Jefferson’s store.

“Jodie, this is Shane Sullivan, our new handyman,” Irene said.

“I’ve been looking forward to this introduction, ma’am.”

Shane? Oddly enough the name suited him. He looked like a lone cowboy, and he probably talked to his horses in just that tone, Jodie thought. Except this was Castleton, New York, not some fictional Western town she’d read about in seventh grade. “Your name is Shane?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Pull up a chair,” Sophie said. “We were just telling Jodie about you.”

“See,” Irene said as Shane snagged a chair and straddled it. “He doesn’t look like a serial killer.”

“Ted Bundy didn’t look like one, either,” Jodie said.

“Right you are,” Shane said. “Everyone who knew him described him as charming.”

“Except for the women he killed,” Jodie pointed out.

Shane grinned at her as he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “Right you are again. I can’t blame you for being cautious. But these are the references I mentioned.”